The Kammersee Affair

by John Holt

  A thought suddenly occurred to him. “By the way, the file doesn’t contain any details of people who were absent that night,” he said. “So if your friends name doesn’t appear, he might have been away that night.”

  “Thank you,” Scott said. “You have been most helpful.” He stood up, shook hands with the police officer, and left the building.

  He wasn’t sure how helpful that had been. After all there had been no reference to Hartman at all. Obviously he could have moved somewhere else before 1945, or he could have died previously. Perhaps he wasn’t even in Konigstrasse that night. If so, according to the officer, his details wouldn’t appear. Another possibility was that he had changed his name. Who was Peter Weiss, anyway? Perhaps Hartman had moved away, and Weiss was the new tenant. There were so many unknowns and nothing definite.

  At least he now had another address to check out. What was that address? Potsdammer Platz number 42.

  As Scott walked back passed the church, he noted that it was nearly two thirty, according to the clock. That had taken hours, and he wasn’t entirely sure what had been achieved. It occurred to him that he had not eaten for several hours.

  As he arrived at the coffee shop, Klaus saw him enter, “Oh sir, late again. Twice in one day. That will never do.” He came over to Scott, and handed him the lunch menu. “Be with you shortly, sir.”

  A short time later, Klaus returned. “Ready to order, sir?” he enquired.

  * * *

  Scott finished his lunch, and was now relaxing with his coffee. Klaus came over, as usual. “Was the meal satisfactory, sir?”

  Supposing I said that it was terrible, Klaus would probably have a seizure there and then. He decided not to cause Klaus to have apoplexy. “As always, Klaus, the meal was very satisfactory, and the service was excellent.”

  Klaus turned away, and proceeded toward the next table, when Scott called him back. “Klaus, just a moment please.” Klaus walked back to Scott’s table. “Do you know where Potsdammer Platz is?”

  “Potsdammer Platz?” Klaus repeated. “No I’m afraid I don’t, although it is familiar.” He shook his head. “But, excuse me for a moment, sir, and I shall make some enquiries.” He went away and spoke to his colleagues.

  He returned shortly afterwards carrying a street map. He placed the map on to the table, and opened it. His fingers hovered over the plan for a moment, until they found the spot required. “There it is, sir.” Klaus pointed to an area close to the town park.” He then moved his finger across the map. “We are here, sir.”

  It did not look that far, possibly three quarters of a mile, or slightly less. “I understand that a number 46 Tramcar, from the station, will take you right there, sir. Just get off at Potsdammer Park, the main entrance. Then it’s only a short distance away. You can’t miss it, sir.”

  “Thank you, Klaus, that’s very helpful,” said Scott getting up to leave. “I’ll be back for dinner, as usual.”

  Klaus folded the map, and started to clear the table, ready for the next customer. Scott approached the counter to pay his bill, and stopped. He looked back at Klaus, and called over. “I’ll try not to be late, again,” he said.

  * * *

  Scott walked the few blocks to the Station, and found the stand for the number 46 Tram. There were a number of people already waiting, and he guessed that it would probably be along quite soon. A short while after he could hear the clanging of the pole running over the overhead wires, jumping over the intersection channelling. Then suddenly the tram came into view, at the far corner. Shortly afterwards it came to a stop. A number of people got off, and made their way toward the station. The people waiting climbed aboard, and Scott followed.

  There were no seats in the lower section, so he climbed the stairs, and found a seat at the back of the tram. With a clang of the bell, the tramcar started to move. It was very slow, and stopped at every stand along the route.

  At last the tram approached the Park. Scott got up, and walked down the stairs in readiness to depart. The tram eventually stopped close to the park gates, and Scott descended from the platform. He began walking the short distance to the corner of the street, and turned into Potsdammer Platz.

  The houses were small, neat and tidy, and laid out in short terraces of six or eight properties. He looked at the first house, number 61. Clearly number 42 was approximately a third of the way down, on the other side of the road. There were a few people walking along the street, and a number of children playing in the roadway.

  As Scott walked along he noticed smoke billowing from several of the chimneys. It was certainly cold, he thought, and many people would have a fire on a day like this. He looked again and noticed that there was no such smoke coming from the chimney of number 42. Perhaps the occupants were away, he reasoned, or maybe they just didn’t feel the cold.

  Scott decided to approach the occupants at number 37. It was close enough, but not too close. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still there was no answer. Scott stepped back into the road, and looked up. No smoke at the chimney either. He looked to the right hand side. He could see that smoke was rising from the chimney of number 39. It looked promising.

  He walked over to the door, and knocked. The door opened almost instantly, and a young woman stepped out, calling for her child who was playing in the street. She was startled to see Scott standing there.

  “I beg your pardon,” Scott said, apologetically. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you could assist me?”

  The girl said nothing for a few moments. She then turned her attention back to the street, and called her child once again. The child looked at her and begged to be allowed to play a bit longer.

  “You come in right now,” she said. “Your tea is ready.” The child reluctantly said goodbye to his friends, and slowly walked back to his mother. Scott watched in silence. As the child came over to her she clutched the youngster to her side, and then ushered the child into the house. Now that the child was out of harms way, she looked at the stranger standing in front of her.

  “Yes what can I do for you?” she asked, obviously nervous.

  Scott told her that he was looking for a Mr. Weiss. He was sure that he lived in that street, but unfortunately he didn’t know which number.

  The girl was relieved. She had worried for no reason. “Oh yes,” she said. “He lives at number 42, just across the road.” She pointed. “Over there.”

  Scott turned his head to look at where she was pointing. “Thank you for your help. That is most kind of you,” Scott replied. “By the way, I don’t actually know Mr. Weiss, not by sight that is. I wonder if you could identify him on this photograph.”

  He passed her a photograph showing four or five people standing in front of a hotel. “I’m afraid it was taken a few years ago, and it isn’t that clear.”

  The girl looked at the photograph for some time. She shook her head, and started to hand the photograph back. She suddenly stopped, and looked once again. Then after a few moments, she pointed to one of the group. “That’s him I think, the one on the end. I didn’t recognise him for a while. I don’t know why, but he certainly looks a lot different now. It’s strange really, but he actually looks a lot younger now. Isn’t that odd? He has shaved off the moustache, and he has obviously dyed his hair. It’s much darker than that.”

  She passed the photograph back to Scott. He looked at the man she had identified. He was gratified to note that she had identified Major Deitrich Hartman.

  “Thank you once again,” he said. “You have been most helpful. Goodbye.”

  “Just a moment,” she called him back. “Mr. Weiss left early this morning. I think he was going to Munich, or somewhere, for a few days, on business. He’s always going away somewhere. I believe he is due back next Tuesday, or Wednesday. I’m not really sure.”

  Scott couldn’t believe it. To be that close; yet still so far away. But at least he now knew that Hartman was still alive, and
that he lived here in Potsdammer Platz. That was a major development. There was nothing else he could do now, except wait until Tuesday. It’s only another five days. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. I shall come back next week.”

  “Can I tell him who called,” she asked. “Perhaps he could get in touch with you. Is there somewhere that he could contact you?”

  “Oh no, that’s quite all right, I want to surprise him,” said Scott. “I have something special for him.” He turned and started to walk away. Suddenly, he hesitated, and then stopped. He turned back to face the young girl. “You could tell him something.”

  “Yes,” said the girl. “What should I say?”

  “Tell him that his fate was here, and it will return quite soon.” With that Scott hurried back down the road, toward the tram stop.

  The girl looked puzzled. She tried hard to comprehend what he had just said, and what he had meant. “His fate was here? What on earth was he talking about?”

  She watched him go, until he was out of sight. She concluded that he wasn’t quite right in the head.

  “Poor devil,” she murmured as she turned and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. “Affected by the war most likely, something bad must have happened to him. Him and thousands like him, on both sides.”

  She resolved to say nothing to Mr. Weiss, nothing at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Deitrich Hartman – Munich 1946

  Deitrich Hartman, or Peter Weiss as he was now known, had caught the train late that afternoon, and was now on his way to Munich. It was a distance of some 600 miles, and he was not due to arrive until the early hours of the following morning. The train was unusually empty, and Hartman had found a compartment to himself. He hoped that it would stay that way for the whole journey, although he knew that would be most unlikely.

  He placed his small suitcase on the overhead rack, and sat down. For some while he sat staring through the window, at the countryside as it rushed by. People were in those little houses busily getting on with their lives. There were people going to restaurants, going to bars. Some were going to the cinema, or maybe a local dance hall. Ordinary little people, he thought, with contempt. He despised them. It was because of them, their weaknesses, and the complete lack of faith, that the Third Reich had been defeated.

  He rubbed the grimy carriage window, as though to see the people clearer. As he did so, the train suddenly entered a tunnel and smoke billowed into the open top window. Hartman hurriedly stood up and closed it. He then reached for his briefcase, which he had placed on the seat opposite. Inside was a brown folder with a swastika stamp across the central section. In the top right hand corner was a faded label containing the name Ernst Richter.

  Also inside the case were a sheaf of papers, two other smaller files, and a small rectangular object wrapped in muslin. The object was approximately 200 mm long, 80 mm wide and 60 mm high. Pressed into the face of the object were the German eagle, a swastika symbol, and the words Reichsbank. It was a single gold bar. A perfectly formed counterfeit gold bar.

  Hartman took out the brown file. Although he knew the contents very well, he began reading the dossier as though he were reading it for the very first time. He studied each page with great care, and deliberation, only turning to the following page when he was satisfied that he had gleaned every shred of information that it contained.

  Ernst Richter was an Austrian. He had been born on the outskirts of Salzburg, in 1912, and had studied physics at the Salzburg University. His mother had died in 1936. His father had been killed in 1917, during the First World War. Richter had stayed in Salzburg until the Anschluss in 1938 when Germany annexed Austria. Richter then seemed to completely disappear.

  Hartman stopped reading. He looked back out of the window. It was about that time that Ernst Richter had first come to his attention. He hadn’t disappeared had he? We knew exactly where he was. “We knew where he was every moment of the day, or night.”

  * * *

  As he stared out of the window he recalled the events of that summer quite vividly. He had been sent to Austria shortly after the take-over, and had been stationed in Salzburg. His orders were simple. He had to seek out, and crush, any opposition to the occupation.

  Although in the minority, many Austrians had actually welcomed the German takeover of their country, in 1938. There had, however, been a small number who were violently opposed to any foreign occupation of their homeland. This gave rise to the establishing of a small, but fairly effective, group of resistance fighters. Richter had joined one such group, and had played a major part in its organisation, and the operations that it undertook.

  Richter was, however, completely unaware that from the very first his activities had been well known to the German High Command, but he had not been troubled. He had never been arrested. He had never even been questioned. The German authorities considered that their purpose was best served by leaving him completely alone, which is precisely what they did. But they had watched him closely, very closely indeed. Every move he made was carefully noted, and recorded. Everywhere he went he was followed, and the details filed. His house was watched twenty-four hours a day. His place of work was watched day and night. Every one that he met was photographed, meticulously recorded, and monitored. Every letter that was sent to him was intercepted, read, noted, and then let through, unchanged. Every letter that he sent, was checked by the authorities, and then similarly let through, also unchanged. The authorities knew everything there was to know about Richter and his activities.

  As a consequence many resistance operations were known about several weeks in advance. The authorities could then take the appropriate action at will. In some cases the operation was actually allowed to proceed unchallenged, in order to prevent suspicion being aroused. Richter had unwittingly been the cause of so many operations failing, and for so many resistance members being captured. For a while he had thought that there might be a traitor in the group. On several occasions he had actually reached a conclusion as to who that traitor might have been. His conclusion would then be shattered when that particular suspect was arrested by the Gestapo, and imprisoned, or executed.

  Eventually, he had decided that there was no traitor. It was just either bad luck, or extremely good intelligence. And still it never dawned on him that it was himself who was providing the relevant information. He never suspected that he himself was the unwitting, unknowing, traitor.

  * * *

  Hartman looked back at the folder, tapping it with his forefinger. It was all documented in these pages. Every single detail had been included. Names, dates, places, it was all there. There was, however, one minor change, he thought, as he slowly closed the file. One slight alteration, that was all.

  * * *

  They were entering a large town, Hannover. The train was slowing down, and was obviously scheduled to stop here. A few moments later it had stopped. There was the sound of carriage doors opening, and slamming shut. The sound of people rushing to leave the train; others hurrying to get on board. He could hear people coming along the corridor, and then the door to his compartment opened, and two people entered noisily. Their cases were hoisted aloft, and placed on the overhead rack. They sat down, only to immediately remember that they needed something from one of the cases. The cases were brought back down, and were opened. Evidently what was required was not there. The case was then slammed shut, and placed back on the overhead rack. Once again the people sat down. Immediately they began talking, loudly.

  Hartman hoped that they did not try to bring him into their conversation. He went back to his reading, the file held high in front of his face, so that he did not see the people opposite. Although he could not see them, he could not help hearing them. He found it hard to concentrate with their incessant mundane babble. Eventually, he was forced to give up. He closed the file, and placed it in his briefcase. He turned his face back toward the window. There was a loud shriek from the train whistle, and the
train slowly pulled out from the station. Hartman closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  * * *

  The train shuddered violently as it came to a halt. The carriage shook, and Hartman woke up with a start. He looked out of the window. It was quite dark, and he could see no indications as to why they had stopped. The train suddenly started again, coming to another shuddering stop a short distance later.

  “There must be trouble on the line,” said one of the people opposite.

  “Maybe there is something wrong with the train,” said the other. “They are always breaking down these days.”

  “I’m telling you there’s a problem with the track up ahead,” retorted the first man authoratively, beginning to get impatient. “Exactly the same thing happened a few days ago, same place. We were stuck here for hours.”

  After some while of inactivity the train slowly started to move, gradually increasing speed, and then slowing once more, and then coming to a complete stop once again.

  The compartment door suddenly opened, and an official peered in. “Sorry about this,” he said. “There is a problem up ahead with the track. They are carrying out major repair works.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said the person opposite quite smugly. “A problem with the track, told you didn’t I?”

  “We should be through it quite soon now. Shouldn’t be too long,” the official said reassuringly, and quickly left the compartment.

  After what appeared to be an interminable amount of time, the train began moving steadily, gradually increasing speed. “We must be clear of the problem, now,” said the smug passenger opposite.

  Obviously, thought Hartman. “I imagine so,” he said, and turned his face back to the window. Hartman could see nothing, apart from the glimmer of isolated lights in the distance, or dark shadows cast by trees, or hedges. He closed his eyes once again, and drifted back to sleep.